Guns Will Keep Us Together Read Online Free

was completely focused on Ms. Doubtfire. I tried not to stare, but it was impossible.
    Forcing my eyes away, I scanned the room. There were other women there—many blondes. I'd slept with a number of them. Of course, I would never work with them. Never bag a client—that's what I would say if I ever had clients, which I didn't.
    Before I knew it, the lunch had concluded. Again, I tore my eyes away from Leonie to pretend I'd been paying attention. People were starting to get up and mingle before heading back to work. When I looked across the table, the redhead was gone.
    "Good to see you again, Dak." Bernie shook my hand.
    "Where did she go?" I fumbled.
    He smiled. "She probably thought you were stalking her—the way you kept staring at her like that."
    I winced, realizing he was right. I had been staring. And for some strange reason, I felt a little depressed that she was gone. I looked at the chair she sat in and spotted a small compact. Picking it up, I realized that Cinderella had left something at the ball. If I ever saw her again, I'd be able to return it. Of course, then she'd really think I was creepy.
    I said my goodbyes and left, circling the parking lot twice to see if I could spot her. Shaking my head to clear it—I headed to Paris' place. And then I remembered last night and all thoughts of Leonie Doubtfire vanished.
    "You're impotent?" Paris's eyes grew wide with amazement.
    I shhhshed him and looked around—a weird thing because we were in his apartment. Still, six months ago, Gin had bugged mine and Paris's phone lines, so I didn't put it past the family to have their ears and eyes on us at all times.
    "No!" I shouted, a little too forcefully. "No. I couldn't help it. She sounded like a man. And Mom was staring at me all through dinner. There was too much pressure to perform!"
    Paris shook his head. "I don't know, man. You've never had a problem like this before."
    "I know! It's making me crazy! What do I do?"
    Paris looked around his apartment, like the answer would automatically materialize in the blender, lampshade or ceiling fan. He had a great place. Paris was an artistic sort. I'd recently found out he wrote poetry. The apartment was filled with artwork—paintings, sculptures and architecturally designed furniture. I used to think he had one hell of an interior designer, but after the poetry revelation, I figured he did it himself.
    "You have to sleep with the other women your mom set you up with," he announced, looking pleased with himself.
    "What?" My mind turned back to Dora and Millie. I shuddered again and realized I was doing that a lot. "Why can't I just spend the weekend in the arms of a couple of Swedish twins?" That seemed more reasonable to me. And I could find 'em too. Some people have "gaydar." Some people have "beerdar." I had "blondar."
    "No. You have to prove that you can screw anyone. Not just your type." He paused, rubbing his chin. "Maybe blondes have ruined you. Maybe you can't have sex with any woman who goes against your type?"
    "That's the stupidest thing I ever heard. I can do any woman. Hair color and legginess doesn't matter." It didn't. Right?
    "What about that Kelly girl?" Paris asked.
    "The one who's afraid of trees?" Hmmm. Theoretically, there was nothing physically wrong with her. She was actually cute. A brunette, but cute. I'd just have to keep her in the bedroom and remove the bamboo plant in the corner, but I could do that.
    "Okay. I'll give her a call." I picked up my cell phone and dialed.
    You might think it's strange that I had her number, but I had every woman's number in my cell phone. Mom would text them to me, and I'd enter them before meeting them. I've never erased a single one. But I did code them. For example, Dora's number came up with a photo of Lee Harvey Oswald. Millie's had Quasimodo. Kelly had Woody Woodpecker. That kind of thing. What?

 
CHAPTER FOUR
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    The Criminologist: I would like, if I may, to take you on a